It was one year ago, in New York. One year of that rushed end of the day, of the most beautiful music that, little by little, I learned. We can dream so much more; we can learn or relearn courage.

Therefore, of each of the days, and of each fragment of the tiny beauty that remains. Almost like pain and longing. Of each museum, each street and avenue full of people, of instants, of time.

In those days, it was impossible not to be silent to write. In each painting is the urgency of color, seeing, and gratitude. An immense privilege, to want to sing in the middle of the street or stay forever.

It was a year ago, New York, and you left me empty-handed. Or only with the most beautiful book, and another of poetry. It was a year ago: you finally showed me what courage is.

The look, the attention to every instant of nature described by the poet Mary Oliver, while listening and watching the birds in the garden. An infinite desire to give thanks. To look for words between bookshelves.

In the central park, among memories that can't be erased, such as nature. Bare feet in the forest, eyes fixed on the lake. A city that allowed itself to be.

Oh do you have time / to linger / for just a little while / out of your busy
and very important day / for the goldfinches / that have gathered / in a field of thistles
(...) as they strive / melodiously / not for your sake / and not for mine
(...) and not for the sake of winning / but for sheer delight and gratitude -/ believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing. (...) Just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in the broken world. / I beg of you,
do not walk by / without pausing / to attend to this / rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something. / It could mean everything. / It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.

In every gallery, every landscape and even in the sound of the rain: You taught me later, every day, patience, the meaning of staying.

One of the most beautiful memories I keep of New York was such a specific sunset: in a movement that blinds, for the still time.

I crossed that day, the city to New Jersey, on a much longer bus, due to fatigue and deception. The transport and the scenery are so old that I thought they no longer existed. And maybe that's why I only keep each person from that brief trip: each small window.

And I keep the light at last, of a horizon disappearing little by little, and of lights and lights on, which made me arrive at the plane in tears.

I remember taking a deep breath and thinking: New York, New York... What's with this nameless feeling you left behind? What road to follow when it all seems too much?

And it was only later, in the middle of a horrible haze, that I realized that a star, a little courage, would be enough. Maybe landing somewhere else would be enough, so I wouldn't have ended up in the plane, one more book, covered in tears.

Today I know only that about the privilege it was to be able to look without limit, slowly or in motion, at the speed that each city imposes. In a restlessness of a vulnerability that we touch lightly, we drop a little of that childish hope.

Because we pass each other so often without seeing, even when Art can make eyes shine at the same time. So many passed by full of dreams.

And everything else was about being together and needing to write. Because we were just kids and now we're not. And all this was a long time ago. The song said just that, a feeling that has no name maybe.

And it was in a return perhaps, looking at a precise path, among the immensity of lights that we now feel. A fragile joy, feet on the ground, in need of gratitude. A joy that cannot be described.

Thank you, New York, for every instance of art or landscape. For life, or for still being part of humanity, even so. A nature in which it is sometimes possible to remain.